Macbeth of Moray
by Obscure Bird
Summary: The rival houses of Moray and Athol are fighting for the crown again, and the young Thane of Glamis is caught in the middle. Will he remain loyal to the king, or to the bonnie widow, Gruoch...
1. Background

This story is half-way based on history. Half-way because I had to change a few details to make it fit with the play. (Not that I'd guarantee that it _does _fit. I have a horrible tendency of misreading it, because

**I HATE MACDUFF!!!**

and so have a very pro-Macbeth slant in my reading. And writing. But I don't think that should be a problem here, since I see no reason to include old Tuck-Tail in this particular story.)

Anyway…

Because the history isn't exactly well-known, I'll give you a wee bit of background.

The big idea is that there are two sides of the Scottish royal family who both have claim to the throne: the House of Athol and the House of Moray. Naturally, they fight over who has the better claim, pretty much like in the War of the Roses.

So King Malcolm II, Duncan's grandfather, marries one of his daughters to Sinel, the thane of Glamis (in real life Findlaech, Mormear of Moray). He raises the son, Macbeth of course, in his court hoping, eventually, to use him to control Moray.

So Macbeth is from Athol on his mother's side and Moray on his father's.

You'll also need to know about Gillecomgain, Sinel's nephew. He murdered Sinel and took over his position. That was while Macbeth was fifteen years old and still stuck at his grandpa's – five years before this story takes place.

Gillecomgain married Gruoch, the granddaughter of King Kenneth III, who was from _another_ branch of the family. Kenneth and his four sons were killed by Malcolm II, but she escaped.

That should be enough background. So, here goes.


	2. Chapter 1

I know people have started this kind of story before – Lady Mac was doing a hell of a job- but I'll give it a shot anyway.

Disclaimer: Macbeth is Shakespeare's, and he's dead, so obviously it isn't mine and he doesn't know I'm writing this. (Duh.)

CHAPTER ONE:

The royal fortress of Forteviot was built in the middle of a sour, barren moor. The soil it stood on was good for little more than absorbing the blood of those who died defending it, supporting only stunted heather and the occasional burst of gorse. The landscape bucked and rolled like a bull beneath a similarly restless sky, creating several small hillocks. On the largest, the only one of notable height, the ancient _dùn_ rose up from the heath. It consisted of one massive tower of dark stone sloping slightly inwards as it neared the top. There were no windows. The only entrance was a heavy wooden gate. Looming stern and imposing over the surrounding countryside, it harbored no pretense of being a kind a comfortable home. Its purpose was to defend, and defend it would.

"_Defense!_" a young man cried victoriously inside its walls. "He defended this country against the Vikings, and the Danes, the Saxons - God and King Malcolm damn them – from your family – no offense – from my family, from every breathing thing on God's earth, but wouldn't you know he couldn't defend himself from old age!" Cheerfully, he removed his clothes and few possessions from the box at the foot of his bed and crammed them into a course sack. His blond hair shook merrily as he worked, and his blue eyes flashed. "And now he's got to defend his own interests. An Athol succession won't come easy." He closed the sack and sat down on the bed. "Thank God for the king's good will!"

Macbeth didn't share his excitement. Leaning against the wall beside the door, he watched his friend sullenly. "Duncan will thank Him for Lochaber's support, your Camerons will thank Him for their boy and their precious feuds returned, and the King will thank Him for one less hostage to feed. I thank Him not, save for your sake."

Banquo laughed, throwing his pack against the rough stone wall and leaning back against it. "And I heard your cousins won the whole of your father's inheritance! Does the House of Lorne not award its ill temper with its land?"

"The clans agreed I was better able to sustain and expand it," he replied through gritted teeth. "Where did Lochaber find such high spirits?"

"From the hand of the king himself, and today I bring home the charter." He waited for a response. "Ah, Mac, you're the very embodiment of friendly spirit and optimism. You could at least wish me luck."

"Luck." He looked briefly at the ceiling, then closed his eyes and said,

"Grant thee good beer at night and good sport in the day,

And no one and nothing get in your way,

And when your wee wifie has too much to say,

May you never look far for a roll in the h-"

Banquo started laughing, leaning forward until he was nearly bent double. "Forget being a soldier, Mac, you'd make one hell of a poet!" He saw that Macbeth was grinning too. "Come with me to the battlements for a while. I think I have some time yet before they come for me."

They walked along several empty halls and narrow stairways to reach the wood and stone ramparts at the very top of the fortress and stood looking out over the stretch of bare mud that served for a road. The wind was cold and the air heavy with the smell of rain and peat smoke. Dark blue-gray stratus cast shadows over the whole moor, creating a scene that was both eerie and beautiful, which they quietly absorbed as the dim light faded away.

"You'll have to tell me what it's like to be home," Macbeth said quietly.

"You'll be out of here soon enough. He can't leave you here forever."

"Nor can he turn me loose. But I hate to be alone here with that stupid-"

"He's not that bad."

Three horses appeared in the shadows at the edge of the moor, only two with riders. These were the Camerons. As they neared the gate, Banquo withdrew from the wall and turned to go. "Goodbye, Mac."

"Good luck, Banquo."

Lady Gruoch considered herself fortunate to have a small chamber adjacent to her bedroom. Although it was only slightly larger than a broom closet and furnished only with a chair, she spent much or her time there because there was a small window set into the stone wall. It looked south over the hills surrounding Inverness to the dark waters of Loch Ness, now shining with the reflection of golden sunset and purple cloud.

As she looked out over her husband's land, she nursed their newborn son, Lulach. He sucked contentedly, his fat little fingers curling around a stray lock of her sandy hair. Smiling, she wrapped his warm lambskin around him and kept him close to her body to shield him from the cold air. He was not yet three weeks old – he would have lots of time to get the fresh air his nurse swore would be good for him. She gently ruffled the tuft of soft hair that sprouted above his round little face. It was black like his father's, but he had her green eyes. He blinked them at her and continued nursing.

The door behind her swung stealthily open, betraying her husband only with the softest creak before she heard the ancient floorboards groaning under his weight. He stood behind her chair, silent, his hands planted firmly on its wooden back. "Hello Gill," she said quietly.

He didn't answer, at first, looking over her shoulder at Lulach. He stared down steadily, making Gruoch uncomfortable under his gaze. "How does he?"

"Well, my lord." She made an effort to sound cheerful. "Agnes says it is a good sign that he was born on a Sunday. She says she's never seen a Sunday child yet who was crossed by witches."

Gillecomgain grunted. "I think he'll have slightly bigger concerns."

This alarmed her. She turned back in her chair to look up at him and held the baby tighter. "What, pray tell, should worry one so young?"

"Hush! You'll disturb him!" He took her by the shoulder and turned her back towards the window. "Let the boy get his fill." She sat still. They were both silent for a moment. "I have to leave tomorrow."

"Now, my lord?"

"I'll be away for a few weeks only."

"Very well." Her tone was bitter, but she couldn't argue.

"It's without help. If the House of Moray is to-"

"_Very well_, my lord."

Sensing her frustration, he leaned close to her, the stubble on his chin scratching the back of her neck. "Wouldn't you like to be a queen?" he whispered.

"Hush. Let the boy get his fill."

Gillecomgain left without another word.

The stone walls of the king's fortress always amplified the sound of rain. The rough stone broke the drops a thousand different ways that produced a million different echoes in the great hall. The sounds of the court were slowed and drowned by the soft whispers of the shattered droplets. The various servants and attendants were hypnotized by it, and even Macbeth, standing several feet behind and to the left of his grandfather's throne, felt its entrancing effect. It took nearly all his effort to stay focused on the negotiations taking place before him.

The king was speaking with a Danish noble about dowries. The man held some position in Northumbria which Macbeth knew he should remember but could not. His name, he recalled, was Siward, and for what felt like hours, he drove the price up and down like a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk. Every sum the king proposed was either above the bride's worth or else so low that it might imply that her house could not shoulder a greater burden. Not that it was any of his business, Macbeth thought. He was only acting as a go-between for some minor Saxon landlord. He suspected the bastard only wanted to keep her from marrying into a Scottish family, like his sister had while his father was alive. The English were always difficult to deal with.

Malcolm seemed born to be a king. He filled the throne like no other could, his majestic build and handsome features impressing his servants and courtiers more than the fine ornaments around him. His silver hair fell around a face still strong for all its wear. That face now wore an expression of great joy, indestructible interest, and above all, a desire for friendship, which was echoed in his deep voice. The only thing that could indicate that he was less than fully pleased was the frustration not completely masked in his eyes.

"Surely," he said warmly, "such a sum as…" he paused briefly and raised one hand slightly to demonstrate that he was guessing to please his guest, "300 pounds would be without offense?" Macbeth could almost hear the underlying thought, and perceiving his grandfather's suspicions about the Englishman's feeling's, doubled his own.

"I'm afraid, your majesty, I must disagree," Siward answered icily.

A hint of slyness crept into the king's smile as he began to feign amused confusion. "Ah, how these English customs confuse me!" His eyes were shining victoriously, and Macbeth was sure that his joy was genuine now. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to suggest an acceptable amount."

This caught the earl by surprise. "I – well, your highness, I think perhaps we might wish to use Scottish standards."

Malcolm allowed himself just a trace of a smirk. "Yes. After all, it served your father well enough when arrangements were made for your sister, didn't it?" He reached over to the stool at his right and gave his oldest grandson a pat on the shoulder. Duncan, half-slouching in his chair beside the throne and toying idly with some trinket, did seem to be aware at all that the Englishman was his brother-in-law.

Siward scowled at the mention of his sister. "Quite," he agreed bitterly. Perhaps, Macbeth thought, it wasn't that she had married a Scot, but that she was the wife of a complete moron. Unlike his younger cousin, Duncan had little interest and less talent in leadership or politics. He had done poorly when he was in school, was awkward with almost any weapon and disinclined to wield one anyway. However, he was very well liked by most who visited Forteviot because he was always excited to see people whether he understood why they had come or not. Even at thirty-seven – seventeen years older than Macbeth – he retained this childish quality.

"Very well, in the Scottish fashion it will be. We'll settle the dowry at twelve cattle, seven sheep, and 72 pounds." Malcolm grinned at Siward, who was looking back angrily. "And a good hen, of course, if one can be spared." Even Macbeth smiled. The king had a brilliant sense of humor from time to time.

"I'm sure that will be acceptable," the Dane said, practically growling.

"Good, sir. I am glad to be done with it!" He leaned forward and gestured for Siward to come closer. "Now if I might have a word with you on a more confidential matter…" The Englishman came forward grudgingly, standing beside the throne. Despite his keen hearing and relative proximity, Macbeth could hear very little of their conversation over the sound of the rain. He had only caught a few snatches before Malcolm looked back at him. "You can go, boy. You needn't stand all day."

"Thank you, your highness," he replied politely, then bowed slightly and left the hall, his grandfather's words echoing in his mind – "_other things must be attended to…"_


	3. Chapter 2

Sorry about the delay in getting this next piece up. _Somebody_ had me chasing after King Hereafter instead of writing! Just kidding. Actually, I ought to be thanking them, seeing as that is one wicked awesome book. Go them!!!

Anyway, here goes.

Macbeth of Moray: Part 2.

The little room with the window was freezing, so cold that Gruoch had already consented to have the window covered with boards for the winter, but she still preferred to stay there. It was more or less her own, as Gillecomgain spent very little time there, and if she chose – and lately she had – she could make sure that it stayed that way by securing a length of twine around the latch and a nearby nail.

Fortunately, there was rarely need for this. He was frequently away, and when he did come home, would assure himself of his son's good condition and leave. He even slept in another room because Lulach's crying woke him in the night. The boy was beginning to cry more now because his teeth were coming in. Not only was she exhausted, but the emerging nubs of tooth made it painful to nurse him.

They had heard almost a week ago that Duncan's wife would soon deliver a child and Gillecomgain had spoken of very little besides heirs and claims since. The news had also made him eager to prove his virility, despite her objections. It was then that she started latching the door.

She could hear him moving about in the main bedroom, his footsteps passing to the bed, to the desk at the far corner, to her door, and back to the bed. She knew he was waiting for her, but stayed stubbornly in the icy little room, even with the cold drafts creeping through the boards to sting her face and chill her breasts through the blanket covering her and Lulach. She didn't want to face him yet, but felt the baby shiver and knew she had to.

She adjusted her shirt and wrapped Lulach in the blanket, then rose and crept quietly to the door. There was only silence on the other side. Softly, slipped off the loop of twine and opened the door, just enough to edge half-way out.

Gillecomgain sat on the bed looking at her. "I knew you'd come out sooner or later." She made no move. "Well, don't stand in the door." She stepped out and let the door swing shut but came no closer to him.

He looked at her for a long time, then stood and went to the desk again, looking away. "I've arranged for Agnes to take him again tonight. You will have him back tomorrow to nurse – in a warm place, mind you – and then she will take him again. On the morning after, I leave for another meeting." He paused a moment, glancing backwards at her. "I'm taking you both with me."

"The morning after! He's not old enough to travel! And unlike you, I haven't had a good night's sleep in months, and now _your lordship _decides –"

"If you'll refrain from struggling so you'll have your sleep!"

"You heartless--" Lulach began to squirm and cry in her arms, stopping her. Her anger gone, Gruoch turned away, feeling her own tears starting to form. Gillecomgain was silent a moment. When he spoke again, he was right behind her, his voice gentle.

"Only tonight, Gruoch. Please. I swear I'll be gentle." She felt his hand on her shoulder. "And you may rest soundly tomorrow." He waited for a response, but there was none. "I'd not make you travel this soon save for your own sake. There is a celebration on that day, marking the birth of the newest Athol brat. It is the one day we needn't fear attack."

The great hall of Forteviot bellowed back the echoes of conversations bubbling forth from the long tables. Servants appeared and vanished through side doors and into store rooms, crisscrossing the busy hall with trays of meat and barrels of ale, dodging the large groups of laughing men. Some of these made their cheerful way to the high table to salute the baby, newly christened Malcolm. Others only found the nearest keg. There had been more toasts drunk, Macbeth thought, than there were flies in a cowshed.

He sat at the far end of one of the lower tables, closest to the door. The fire blazing in the front of the hall cast the red ghosts of flames across these farthest reaches of the room and could do little more than ease the winter's chill that crept through the door, but he was comfortable. The relative cold and dark were soothing to his pounding head and eyes sore from too many long nights.

Duncan's wife had given birth in the room directly below his and it had been a long, difficult affair. From the late evening while he was studying until after dawn, groans and screams sounded through the worn floorboards, punctuated occasionally by the shrill voice of the midwife giving instructions. Macbeth, with only a little, crude knowledge of the mechanics of the begetting and birth of children, was horrified. His cousin's torment hounded him all night, holding him pale and frozen on the edge of his cot. Some hours before the false dawn began to cast its silver light over the eastern hills, he would have sworn that she would not live to see the sunrise.

All the next day, the memory haunted him. He remembered hearing some months ago that his cousin Gillecomgain's wife had born him a son as well and now found himself shuddering at the thought. He imagined the older man pacing a hallway ringing with those terrible sounds. Suddenly fearful for his relatives' safety, he grew desperate to discover Malcolm's plans, those things that must be done before the Saxon girl's wedding. That too, and its place in the king's schemes, remained a mystery. Even the intended groom had never been mentioned to him.

The following nights, Macbeth had laid awake and uncomfortable, questions and ideas parading around him in stumbling, staring armies. When he dozed off to an uneasy sleep, he woke often to find himself on the verge of drawing some strange conclusion without the recollection of how he had arrived at it. He staggered into the hallway once, half-drunk with the liquor of his dreams, and reeled back in terror thinking he'd seen a babe crawling furiously toward him, but realized after a moment that it was only the cat from the kitchens. Another night he had risen in a half-stupor, resolving to write to his cousins in Moray, only to fall asleep at his little table where he dreamt that a child had killed its mother and chased him to a field of ashes. He woke to discover that he had knocked over a candle and set the page on fire. On the night before the banquet, he finally managed to steal a few hours of light sleep by deciding sleepily to observe the Athol guests for clues.

Glancing across the room to the high table, he tried to recognize his grandfather's guests and potential conspirators. Duncan sat happily to Malcolm's right, thrilled to see so many of his clansmen at once. To the king's left was the tired mother, the baby in her arms. Around them thronged the leaders of Athol: Crinan the thane, the Abbot of Dunkeld, and several men who appeared to be clan chiefs. Naturally every one of them would profit from another Athol man's gaining the throne. He wondered if they were all to play some role in the king's plans, or would only be called on for their support. A small, infuriating thought reminded him that they could simply be discussing the affairs of the province they all called home.

Macbeth hung his head and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers over his unkempt copper hair. He was tired of thinking so long without answers. Still the questions taunted him. Did Duncan know? Would the English invade? Who was the Saxon girl? He wondered how Malcolm felt to control the events after his own death.

A tap on the shoulder interrupted his thoughts. Lifting his head, he looked back at a servant who said only "Your presence is requested at the high table." This surprised him. Surely, if they had wanted his company, they would have sent for him earlier. He eyed the figures at the king's table with new suspicion as he rose and made his way across the hall.

"Your majesty," he said, bowing slightly before his grandfather.

All but buzzing with joy, Duncan beamed at his younger cousin. "Macbeth! The whole of this fine day I have hoped only for your presence to make my joy complete! My thanks go to God that showing you your newest cousin provides me the occasion to present by own dear kinsman to all my good friends!"

The king raised his hands and held them out the company. "My friends, this is my second grandson, Macbeth – son of the late Sinel, Thane of Glamis and leader of the house of Moray." Macbeth felt uncomfortable at the mention of his father, and even worse under the scrutinizing gaze of the Atholmen. Crinan wore an expression of smug amusement. The abbot, on the other hand, seemed nervous, glancing uncertainly between the two cousins. The other faces around the table showed mostly the same emotions in varying degrees.

"He rather favors his father, does he not?" a nearby chieftain said coolly. Macbeth wore his mother's tartan, as did many of the guests from Athol, yet the chief's statement was rather obvious. In a crowd of clansmen who were for the most part brown haired and stocky, he was built taller and thinner, with the pale skin and reddish hair that marked him as one from Moray.

"In appearance, yes, but there's a good deal of my daughter in him." A cunning gleam brightened the king's eyes. "He's never yet been a disappointment to me."

His face grew hot under the unwelcome attention. He felt as though he were being measured and analyzed in all those eyes, examined like a new hound or horse. Even the compliment, one of few he'd received from his grandfather, made him feel awkward. He could feel his pulse hammering in his throat, but looked steadily back at Malcolm. He thought he knew the purpose of this meeting and decided to follow along. "Thanks to your majesty. I am very glad of it." He forced a grin. "May you find your new heir yet more pleasing, and fit to share in the glory of your royal line of Athol."

The cocky thane raised his glass to drink to that, his expression growing even more certain. Even the more doubtful clergyman seemed somewhat reassured. Confident looks were exchanged all around the table and Duncan's eyes shone with joy.

"Thank you, Macbeth," the king replied. "If this next generation proves half as worthy as my own grandsons, I will be well pleased with the remainder of my life. However, my boy, before I begin to think of the end, I intend to see you prove your skill as a huntsman. You mean, of course, to join the hunt today?"

A boar had been spotted nearby foraging in the barren fields and was chosen immediately to be the target of the celebratory chase. Although the dangers of a boar hunt had never frightened Macbeth before, he nearly shuddered at the idea of being alone in the woods with a horde of armed Athol clansmen. "My skill is mostly in tracking deer, your majesty, and greatly exaggerated at that. With all due respect, I had thought to leave the chase to more experienced hunters."

"I should accept your withdrawal, Macbeth, only if it were a fox hunt, for fear it would be yourself the dogs ran to ground! The gamekeeper aims to make a legend of you." Malcolm grinned slyly. "And the woods will be thick with our kin to help you. Surely you would not allow your grandfather to sink into decline without seeing his boy in action."

"Never, gracious lord, would I let such a thing happen." He widened his smile as he tried to reassure himself. "I will fetch my spear, if your majesty will give me leave."

Malcolm nodded, pleased, and within an hour the men were spread out among the hills. Through thin patches of brush and saplings, flashes of tartan and steel appeared and vanished across the winter landscape as the Athol men passed silently in groups and pairs. Macbeth chose to stalk alone, traveling along a frozen stream at the bottom of a steep ravine. The banks were overgrown with bracken, dead and dried to a rusty red color against which he hoped his hair would blend in.

Still, he worried at the sound of footsteps behind him, which seemed too close and persistent to be coincidental, and too loud to be the careful tread of a hunter. They shuffled noisily behind the rise of the steep bank, until suddenly his follower burst through the dry brush.

It was the Prince of Cumberland who stood on the other side of the band of frozen white, panting and looking hopefully at his younger cousin. "Truly I am blessed with a brave kinsman that would stalk a boar alone, but perhaps there is room for another set of footprints on that bank, if you would humor your own cousin who would hunt with you." His brown eyes glittered like a child's.

"Were you not to accompany the royal party? And what of your horse?" The royal guests were all riding with the king, and Duncan had been expected to go with them.

"I gave it to one of the men and ran away. I want to hunt with you."

Macbeth saw no reason to disappoint him, and rather liked the idea of having a companion from Athol who he knew he could trust. "Cross over, then, and come with me," he said, grinning. "But quietly." No longer alone, the shapes in the brush didn't seem a threat and he began to enjoy the hunt. It felt as though he were stalking deer with Banquo. Just around a bend in the steep sides of the ravine was the spot where the stream widened and the high bank stooped toward the water, creating a small flat area where they often caught the deer coming to drink.

The deer had retreated from the winter weather into the deep thickets further away, but the frozen mud was crisscrossed by two-toed hoof marks too small to belong to any deer. Kneeling to examine the tracks, Macbeth found that the water oozing from some of the prints had not yet refrozen. The boar had been there only just before they had.

A sharp crack sounded from the opposite side of the steep projection of the bank that blocked their view of the drinking hole. Duncan had already passed him and stood pressed against the frozen dirt and brush, peering around the edge. "It's here!" Joining his cousin, Macbeth saw the boar, taller and bulkier than the tame pigs at Forteviot and covered in thick bristles. Its head was down, its snout through the new hole in the ice. Only the yellowed tips were visible of its fearsome tusks.

With his heart hammering in his chest, he tapped Duncan on the shoulder and began to ease his way through the dead bracken toward the top of the bank, gripping his spear tightly in one hand. As he looked down on the boar, he felt miles away from it, as if it were a dream, surrounded by the roaring of his pulse. All the stories he'd heard from the old huntsmen rang through his head, and he found that he had difficulty recalling one that was not accompanied by the display of some horrible scar. Still, it was excitement more than fear that was rushing through him as he began to climb down, feet first, with his back to the bank and his eyes never leaving that magnificent beast.

A crashing in the dry brush to his right brought his gaze and the boar's to Duncan, who had lost his footing and was now sliding down through the bracken on his back, his spear lost in the weeds. Arriving in a heap at the bottom of the slope, the prince saw their quarry let out a heart-stopping scream and take off running, not to flee, deer-like, but to wheel around and come charging towards him.

Macbeth pushed away from the bank and leapt as far as he could into the boar's path, thrusting down with his spear as it went thundering past him. He hit it, but only barely, the tip of his spear just grazing its bristled back. It let out another screech and turned again, its black eyes blazing as it came towards him. He could scarcely jump out of the way in time, never mind try to kill it. Turning, he dodged the next charge but missed the boar, his spear biting into the frozen mud.

The boar's cries and Duncan's gathered all the men nearby. They emerged from the brush and stood around them, spears held ready to catch the boar if it escaped but unwilling risk harming a grandson of the king by trying to kill the beast while he was so close to it. Macbeth was hardly aware of them as he dodged the wild charges, until he heard the sound of hooves along the deer trail behind him. He had only looked away for a fraction of a second, in the middle of the next jump, but no sooner than he had caught a glimpse of the looks of alarm on the faces of the king and his party, he felt the point of a curved yellow tusk tear through the flesh of his leg and heard his spear shaft break as he fell against it.

From the moment the boar tore past to the instant he found himself half-sprawling, half-rolling across the ground, he felt almost no pain. It wasn't until he hit the ground that the deep, jagged tear began to burn and his ribs scream where the spear had hit him and broken. He was overwhelmed for that moment by the sound of Duncan calling his name, by the thundering of the split hooves and the boar's victorious squeal as it threw its bloody muzzle in the air, wheeling again.

By now Duncan had scrambled down the bank again, his own spear held uncertainly as he called again. Macbeth saw the beast's wild black eyes fix on his cousin, who promptly dropped his spear and cowered back into the brush. The boar came straight at him.

Macbeth was hardly aware of what he was doing before he had scrambled with unbelievable speed onto his uninjured leg and dove straight at the boar. Although his arms slid down its back, his weight forced its back legs out and down, stopping long enough to get a decent grip, wrapping his arms around its chest. Its thick bristles pricked him through his wool shirt as it shrieked and tried to thrash its way free. For a moment he was able to hold it on its side, its feet slashing the cold mud before it was able to right itself, rolling both of them over.

Now he was on his back with the boar's weight crushing him, pressing its hooves into him. It tried to charge, to leap away, and his grip broke as the hooves dug into his stomach, but he quickly took hold again. Grabbing the tusks, slick with blood and slobber, he fought to hold the swinging head at arm's length.

All around the circle, the Athol men tightened their grips on their spears, unable to attack while the boar was so closely entangled with its assailant. They only watched the display before them in astonishment as the flailing hooves began to pound and tear at the strange young man who could do nothing but hold its head.

His old leather belt saved his waist from some of the slashing edges of its hind hooves, but his chest and shoulders were torn and bleeding, every blow jarring his bones. The crushing weight pressed every ridge and stone of the frozen ground into his back, reminding him constantly of the dagger tucked in his belt. He could kill the boar with it if he had to. If he could throw it off.

Screaming, it reared, pulled back, reared again. Macbeth knew what to do. As the boar began to hurl itself back again, he released it, letting it rear backwards, off balance, until it had staggered off of him. Kicking it hard on the chest with his uninjured leg, he sat up and reached the dagger as the boar started back. He kicked it again, hitting it square on its ugly snout. Now he lifted himself into a crouch as it started its final charge.

It was nearly on him when he pushed off to one side – too slowly. Its tusks found him again, tearing his shirt and grating against his ribs as it went by.

But its strike was too late to stop him from plunging the dagger high into its side and slashing down to its belly. When he hit the ground, it was in a pool of smoking blood, his own and the boar's.

It tried to run. Macbeth heard it fall. Wiping blood from his eyes, he saw that it had tripped because its intestines were looped around its hooves.

He lay there and watched as it stopped thrashing. Both of them were wheezing and bleeding. The only difference between them, he thought, was that he didn't have his guts wrapped around his ankles.

He laid his head back, glancing around at the gathered huntsmen. There was a circle of slack jaws and disbelieving stares all around the drinking hole. The faces of the royal party wore expressions of uncertainty at best, and horror at worst. He doubted it was his hunting skills that had had that effect.

"Duncan," he called up the slope. "Duncan, it still lives. The kill is yours." The prince was clearly terrified, but he rose from the brush and reached carefully for his spear, which lay where he had dropped it. He came forward, glancing nervously at his younger cousin as he crept to where the boar lay. He jumped as it made one last, useless effort to rise.

Macbeth heard the thrust, almost felt it. Then the banks exploded with cheers and the men came running forward, some to the boar, some to congratulate Duncan, some to see his own wounds. These he barely had time to acknowledge. He saw one man, red-haired, disappearing into the brush, then nothing.

"They were taking it back to the _dùn_, sir, when I left."

"None came this way?"

"None that I saw, sir." The messenger's voice was harsh, and his curt manner made Gruoch think of an ill-tempered goat, despite his grudgingly respectful replies. She was not, however, entirely without sympathy for him. Her husband, who she was by no means pleased with at the moment, had been checking and rechecking his report for the better part of an hour. It seemed natural to her that, having run nearly from Forteviot, a man may be somewhat irritable at being questioned so thoroughly.

"See, my dear?" Gillecomgain said, turning to her and grinning through his neatly trimmed beard. "You and Lulach will be safe here." Safety was not her concern. Their own castle at Inverness, she told herself, would be nearly as easily stormed as would this. She would rather have stayed there than be dragged here to stay aside all day while he made his speeches, ignoring her. She aimed a mental lecture at his turned back as he muttered something to the messenger about the importance of protecting the heirs to the House of Moray, at which the other man nodded solemnly. "Speaking of heirs," he said, casting a quick glance at Gruoch over one shoulder. She missed the rest of his question, tired of such talk.

"It was him that fought the boar, sir."

"You're sure? It couldn't have been another, Cawdor's boy, perhaps?"

"There's no mistaking Sinell's son." This caught her interest. Sinell's was a name spoken occasionally in the shadows of Inverness like a ghost's, a sort of half-mystery that solved itself a hundred different ways in legend. Whisperers asked each other how much certain men had known about the late thane's death. The king and various Athol leaders appeared in their theories, but never as often as Gillecomgain himself. Never, though, could she recall a mention of a son.

"_He_ killed it?"

"All but, sir."

"How? Is he, ah…, very skilled with weapons?" He was clearly growing somewhat nervous, but Gruoch was fascinated by the story. It did seem like one to her, a myth half-made, the next segment of one of the porter's wild tales.

"Perhaps. He scarcely used one."

"What, fought a boar unarmed? No one could win!"

"You could only barely call either the winner, sir."

There was a pause. "Is he dead then?" Gillecomgain asked almost hopefully.

"I doubt it." Gruoch tried to imagine what her husband must have looked like to give the messenger his half-suppressed smirk. "They didn't look to be killing wounds. But it's possible."

"Seyton, I sent you for _information, _not possibilities!" As he began to berate the messenger, Gruoch smiled, imagining the sort of legend this all would have made if only it had happened just a few centuries ago. What sort of CuChulainn would Gillecomgain make, she wondered, holding Ulster's shores against this new Connla. And yet she would still play only Emer, waiting in the hall for her husband's return.

She ended these thoughts with a sigh, absently smoothing Lulach's tousled black curls as Gillecomgain angrily dismissed the messenger. He stood glaring at no one for a moment before his mood and his eyes softened. Turning towards her for almost the first time since they arrived in the old fort near Strathbogie, he watched her silently.

They were alone in a small room adjacent to the great, crowded meeting hall. He had been with the clansmen all day, only coming away to listen to his messenger. She had been sitting at her little table, nursing Lulach and waiting for the time when she was to parade him before the assembled men of Moray. She had listened to his voice thundering all day through the old timbers of the wall. He spoke of the rights and strengths of this greatest of provinces, about his own lineage and ability, about the events that would follow the death of the king. She had expected all that, but it made her sad to hear him speak so much and so passionately to strangers while she was waiting alone.

Now he looked at her uncertainly, almost regretfully, the silence between them roaring over the chatter of clansmen in the next room. "Have you been comfortable?" he asked finally.

She kept her eyes on Lulach. "Yes, my lord."

"I wondered that the hours had passed so swiftly, but I imagine now that they must have seemed quite slow in here."

"How could they, my lord, when I have had all your fine speeches to listen to." There was no hint of kindness in her voice, although she saw remorse clearly in his face.

"They will be over soon at any rate. And you will be on your way home to a good night's rest." He paused. "Are you tired?"

"No, my lord." She was tired, although he had kept his promise that she would have the night before to rest. Oddly, she found herself almost wishing that he hadn't. She had never felt so alone while she was busy hating him. Now the pain in his face made her feel a little cruel to act so coldly toward him. She turned her gaze shamefully back to Lulach. "I slept rather well," she added half-heartedly.

"You-" he paused again, uncertain. "You're ready then?"

"Yes." Standing, she straightened her clothes and shifted Lulach so he would be comfortable and easier to carry. Gillecomgain stood at the door in front of her. He glanced at her quickly, then it swung open, sending the noise of the clansmen rushing against them like a storm tide. They were cheering, but not for her. She felt again that she was no more than any good ewe or brood mare to these men.

The applause and cheering continued as he led her up to the platform where he had stood rallying all day. Suddenly ashamed, she lowered her head like a calf on a tether as she dragged along behind her husband. She found herself sorrowfully recalling her wedding day. How unwanted she had felt – an orphan packed away to ease her guardian's burdens, another small claim tacked onto a strange thane's bid for the throne.

Defiant. Stubborn. Willful. She had always been called these things but felt none of them as she stood on display before the assembly. Nor had she then, at the alter only nineteen year old, two years ago.

Gillecomgain spoke but she couldn't force herself to listen. He and his men, his cause and the glorious future he spoke of now, all seemed to become nothing to her as she stared at the baby in her arms. His great speeches were scarcely distinguishable from the sound of barrels rolling across the floor as servants began bringing ale to the men.

She remembered the heavy scent of whisky hanging about her husband on their first night as man and wife. Hadn't she been excited then too – felt at least a sort of nervous thrill? Though she little cared for the man or the occasion, that event held a frightened wonder, which had perhaps remained with her and been mistaken for love. Or had she been mistaken at all? It seemed possible that perhaps she might have grown to love him.

She frowned to herself. She didn't want to grow to love him, of feel that _perhaps_ she had become somewhat fond of him. And she certainly did not want to be a stepping stone to the crown.

She thought back to Emer and the myths she'd read as a younger girl. She had fancied herself then in a marriage like Meabd and Aillel's – with a husband of her own choosing, a decent man she could love and speak to as an equal.

She remembered Dierdre, locked away as a king's future bride but longing for the man she truly loved.

Dierdre and her lover had fled. Meabd, the Queen of Connacht, had the power to make her own choices. Gruoch could do neither, and so stood now with her child as her husband wooed the warriors of Moray.

The last of his speeches gave way to wild cheers and Gillecomgain stood there basking in his clansmen's loud approval. Glasses began to rise in Lulach's name or for Moray's sake. Nobody spoke for the thane's lady.

It was strange, she thought, that she heard the door across the hall close over all the racket. She stared at it, even when Gillecomgain finally came to her and smiled. She watched as a servant tried the door and found it stuck. She scarcely had time to give her husband a frightened look before the smell of smoke became detectable in the hall.

Above their heads, a smoldering circle in the thatch began to spread out slowly, sending thick, acrid smoke churning down towards the tables. It hadn't burst into flame yet because the bundled brush of the thatch was still wet with icy rain, but as the black and hissing patch touched the drier beams of the roof, they became suddenly alive with bright flames.

She stared in disbelief for a moment before she felt Gillecomgain push her over the edge of the platform in the direction of the doorway. His orders to run were nearly drowned out as the cheerful babble of the clansmen exploded into the scraping of chairs and outraged cries. Smoke already filled the side room so thickly that she could scarcely make out the table where she had waited all day. It stung her eyes and burned her throat as she fought and stumbled her way to the door, Lulach screaming and writhing against her. The latch turned, but though she shook and heaved and beat at the door, it refused to open.

She let out a scream, fighting savagely with the latch until scraps of burning heather began to fall from the thatch, stinging her face and arms so that the flew horrified from the door, reeling through the churning black to the door into the kitchen. She struck the wooden so hard that the door crashed open and sent her sprawling beneath the smoke.

Hot ash fell like snow on the floor, whirling in the gusts of her breath. Beneath her Lulach screamed, and she brought herself to her hands and knees, clutching him tightly to her. Servants ran past her, screaming. A heavyset kitchen maid beat, wailing, at the door. It was barred from the outside like the others.

Another figure rushed by, nearly hitting her, bringing her to her senses. She staggered to her feet and began to follow it. Her whole chest seemed to burn and the smoke blinded her as she fumbled her way back to the main hall.

The men at the other end of the hall were only whirling shapes in the black cloud around them, their massed movements sending the heat and smoke in great surges toward her like a dragon's breath. They had lifted one of the tables and were trying to batter the door down with it. A great _crack_ sounded through the hall, making her run forward, giddy with excitement and relief. As men came running toward her, though, surrounded by ghosts and echoes that screamed to grab the other table, she stopped short. One of these ghosts paused in the red light of the flames. She recognized her husband.

She never heard the orders he had bellowed over the thunder of the flames, but she saw a small figure run away toward her, taking her by the arm and half-dragging her into the side room.

The roar of the fire that drowned Gillecomgain's voice as he instructed his men to follow them couldn't disguise the sound of the doorway's collapse.

It was the messenger, she saw, who released her now to push the table to the far side of the room, where the slope of the roof met the outer wall. She ran to him, locating the table through the smoke by the scraping of its legs of the floor, and was dragged onto it. She was scarcely aware of what was happening until she was thrown through the thatch and over the wall, landing hard on the other side.

She scrambled painfully to her feet as Seyton hurled himself from the wall onto a threatening figure nearby.

Hurdling blindly into the night, Lulach only wheezing, she never heard the crash as the fortress collapsed on itself.

When the king's messenger woke Macbeth from his fevered sleep, he'd been dreaming that they had roasted a boar with his cousin's face. Its tortured cries rang in his ears as he limped to the royal chambers to hear Malcolm's great news.


	4. Chapter 3

Sorry, once again, for the delay. Also for some technical difficulties in posting... which is why I've had to stick " JUMP " between viewpoints.

Macbeth of Moray:

Chapter Three

Seyton leaned against the charred remnant of a wall for a moment, listening as the wind bore the tolling of bells over the hills. It was a cold wind, but his work left him panting, with sweat plastering soot to his skin.

Hard work was not new to him, but there was a strange feeling to this task. He had been no closer to Gillecomgain than he had been to Sinel before him, and felt no more sorrow for his lost lord than he had when he stood at that man's graveside. It was not a matter for tears. But he saw his fellows stagger through a thin mist bearing scorched stones, saw once solid walls collapse into clouds of ash beneath workers' picks, heard the grunts and sound of rock upon rock as the cairn grew higher. There was a difference between a thane's grave and the black, yawning pit they now worked in. There was a strangeness to it. It was ill work.

He wiped a grimy forearm across his brow and eased his weight off the blackened stone, enjoying the cold air another second before he bent back to the task at hand. But he stooped to lift another stone, he stopped and stood again. Yes, he had seen it – a single rider watching from the crest of a nearby hill.

A rider with copper hair, raising a hand in greeting as he urged his horse forward.

Seyton stared as the man came closer. Barely a man in years, more than a man in deeds – this was the boy from the boar hunt. Sinel's son.

JUMP

Macbeth didn't look around. He had seen the smoking hole from the hill before riding on. Before riding into it. Now that mist rose like smoke around his own feet, and the smell of burned flesh was heavy. He didn't need to look, but he needed to be there.

Hadn't this happened for his sake, after all? Hadn't his grandfather ordered this so that he would be given Glamis? The king hadn't told him as much, but the whole affair seemed to hint at royal direction. And he was the one who had gained most from his cousin's death.

Then again, perhaps not. At only twenty, Macbeth could stand to wait for Gillecomgain to die without interference. Or at least not from him. Rulers rarely led long lives. No. The coveted thanedom of Glamis had to be held by one the king could trust. The house of Loarn had to be ruled by one who would not take advantage of its claim to the throne. So that Duncan would never be challenged.

"My lord?" Macbeth lifted his eyes from the soot-laden mist. A man stood before him, small and lean. He was covered in heavy ash and filth, but Macbeth could see that he had pale skin and red hair – skin as pale as the thane's own and hair even redder. Looking around, he saw the other workmen were also tall and fair. Such a crowd would have been out of place in Scone or in Athol.

Much as Macbeth had been.

The red-haired man dropped to one knee in the still-steaming rubble. "My lord, welcome home."

JUMP

Gruoch saw the party approaching from the window. She had torn away the boards despite the cold. She had to see what was coming. They could scarcely force her from the little room now It drover her to her wits end not to watch for him.

Of course, it drove her to her wits end, too, to see poor Lulach gone pale, hear him crying and wheezing. He would not nurse. He could not breathe. It was the smoke, they said. It had been too much for his little lungs.

She was afraid for him, but more than that she was just afraid. She didn't know what of. The ones who had burned Gillecomgain, perhaps. The king, or the Atholmen, if it had been them. The ones who might try again to burn her. And the new thane.

And now he came.

He rode a gray horse, a pony tethered behind him was loaded with a few bags – too few, she thought, to contain all a thane's belongings. The men from the worksite, grim and grimy, accompanied him on foot with one or two shaggy garrons. Of the man himself she could tell little, tall and faceless. His hair caught a glint from the sun too like flame.

He came. And what would she do? She should go, or else stay elsewhere. Let the new power set up his reign in Glamis in peace. But he had come here. He must know she was still here. She pressed an ear to the door to the bedroom, heard Lulach's choking cries. She could not move her son. But what if he had come to find them, to start a new fire where the first had left off? Could they still be a threat to him?

She heard the gates creak open and horses in the courtyard. She had to face him. Steeling herself, she swung the door open and crossed the room at a run.

She paused only once, at her husband's table. It was foolish, but she found her trembling fingers closing around Gillecomgain's shaving knife.

JUMP

Inverness castle had been the landscape of his dreams since he was a boy. The stones of the walls, the worn timber floor, the stairs, the halls, the windows: all were familiar. But all were strange as well. They supported new hangings and rugs, were decked with new furniture. It was the home of another man imposing itself over his own. It was an eerie feeling, Macbeth thought, to be an intruder in his boyhood home.

It had been years since he left Inverness for Scone. But he had to force himself to recall that his mother would not come sweeping out of the hall to meet him, to recall the cross-shaped shaped gravestone they'd made for her when he was six years old and still here. He pushed the memory away; let it sink in the silence of the castle. A castle in mourning, now as it was then.

Now there was a widow. His cousin's. He cursed inwardly, trying to imagine what he would say to her.

Nothing about Gillecomgain. He bore no especial hatred for his cousin, not anymore, at least. But he could never stomach his presence, his existence. Could never pretend to grieve for him. There was no shortage of whispers at court, after all. Macbeth knew who killed his father.

He tried to remember the facts of his cousin's marriage. She was of Clan Duff, a vanquished rival of the House of Athol, and she had been young. That was only…two years ago, perhaps. And there was the boy.

They had met only once, briefly. He could not recall her face.

He didn't suppose it mattered.

He made his way carefully into a sitting room, putting weight gingerly on his injured leg. The wound was healing cleanly, but the long ride had left it stiff and sore and he was eager to get off his feet. Glancing about, he saw an armchair that had been his father's. But it set now at the end of a wooden table. It stood at the hearth when he was a boy. He crossed to it, and, uncertain, laid his hands on its wooden back. It belonged by the fire, he decided, and dragged it a few halting steps in that direction. Seyton stepped forward to help, but stopped, glancing at his filthy hands. Macbeth looked at those hands too.

Glamis and Moray were not the same as they were in his father's day. He could not make them be the same. Could he? He let go of the chair.

He had been sent to prevent the house of Loarn from putting forth its claim to the throne. Gillecomgain had been _killed_ so that he could be replaced by a more docile thane. Part of Macbeth objected to that, but it was true. That had been the purpose of twelve years' captivity in Scone – to produce an heir for Moray content to wait on the king's pleasure.

He came from behind the chair, standing beside it. His fingers brushed the worn fabric of the armrest. _Would Moray accept that?_

He could force them. Those twelve years had also instilled in him a knack for his grandfather's iron-fisted approach.

_But then, why bother? _whispered the last spark of defiance to survive those years…

JUMP

Gruoch burst into the room to find to find the new thane standing already in the sitting room, startled, apparently, by her sudden entrance. He was not the only one caught off-guard, as Seyton bowed hastily and began to stammer an introduction. She took little notice of him, staring at this intruder. She had seen him before, but so had she met many of Gillecomgain's distant kinsmen. She did not know him. His copper hair was cropped to a short, unruly mane and his lean features were pale. His dress was nothing spectacular, but Gruoch felt her heart beat faster when she saw that he wore an Athol tartan. Her eyes returned to his face. Blue-gray eyes hid nothing but showed little other than surprise…And displeasure? With what? She glanced again at the blood-red Athol pattern. "My lord, you are welcome," she choked.

"Thank you, lady." His voice was soft, almost a murmur, but there was no soft emotion in it. "I –" He paused, frowning. "I hope you do not suffer overmuch in your grief." As he spoke, he stepped forward, limping. Gruoch gasped, noticing for the first time the bandages bound around his right calf.

"My lord! You're -" Her fingers tightened instinctively around the handle of Gillecomgain's knife, though her fear, for a moment, was more for him than of him. "Were you attacked?"

"No," he said, distractedly. He waved a hand dismissively. "It was…a bit of a hunting accident." His eyes drifted absently to one side.

"If thou be hurt with horn of stag, it brings thee to thy bier,

But barber's hand shall boar's hurt heal; thereof have thou no fear."

His gaze returned to her, his face spread with the first sign of warmth. "I have heard that rather often of late." The warmth in his expression faded quickly. He must have seen the horror in her own.

This was the whisper in the shadow, the slip of the tongue at the banquet table, the high king's heartless hostage. This was Sinel's son.

JUMP

"My lady?" Macbeth tried to recall what he could possibly have said to make her recoil so. Perhaps his rhyme had offended her, though he could not imagine how it might apply so aptly to Gillecomgain as to provoke so strong a reaction. "My lady, have I spoken ill?" He took another step closer, searching her face. No, this was not grief. Gruoch's eyes, red from tears, were wide, her face – somewhat pale before, went shroud white. He glanced at Seyton but the servant seemed as puzzled as he was. Turning back, he cautiously studied the woman. "My lady?"

"You're his son," she all but whimpered, drawing back. "You're Sinel's son… You - " She could force out no more words, or would not. But Macbeth knew them – _You killed Gillecomgain._ He frowned.

"Gillecomgain murdered my father. I was a boy and a… and at my grandfather's court." He came forward again, his speech flat, his voice a growl in his own ears. "Had I been a man, or been here, I should have had my revenge then." He paused, his eyes locked on hers. "I did _not_ kill your husband." He turned away, limping toward the chair. He didn't know why the suggestion should bother him. "Neither need you fear for your own sake, or your boy's. I'll not claim the blood of innocents."

Perhaps he should have killed Gillecomgain. The end effect would be the same. The end result would be the same, but without the clawing sense that everything had come about not for his own sake or his father's, but for another. Without leaving him feeling like a player on his grandfather's chessboard, carved stone holding whatever place it was sent to.

Something hit the floor behind him. He turned.

JUMP

Gruoch froze as the little knife slipped from her fingers. Perhaps her hands trembled too badly to hold it, or perhaps his promise of safety had relaxed her grip. Maybe both together let it fall. But nothing could force her to stoop to pick it up again. Instead, she shrank back from the new Thane of Glamis, cowering as his eyes found the knife on the floor, its blade catching the light from the firelight. When those eyes met hers, they were angry.

It was Seyton, though, that made the first move, darting to snatch the knife. His fingers left soot marks on the floor like raven wings. She barely saw him, though he remained on one knee, hostile not humble, the little weapon pinned beneath his hand like a living thing. She saw only Macbeth, who did nothing but search her eyes with his.

What could he find there but fear? How might he mistake that? She cursed herself for taking the knife. _Did you imagine you could have saved yourself if he had meant to kill you? Fool, now he surely will! _She had thrown away the innocence that had protected her. What mercy would Macbeth spare for one who'd seemed to seek his life?

JUMP

Seyton didn't move, waiting for instructions. None came. The thane stood unmoving, not even seeming to breathe, a creature of stone. The lady Gruoch, too, seemed rooted to the spot, though anything but still. She trembled like a fevered thing, her breath coming in soft whimpers, and – did he imagine it? – tears welling up in her green eyes. His own resolve softened as he knelt, hoping for Macbeth to speak. He did not.

But the door through which the lady had come crashed open again, and Lora, one of the household girls, dashed in. "My lady, you - " She stopped dead at the sight of the three frozen figures, then when all eyes turned to her, spoke again. "My lady, you must come quickly. It's Lulach!" And so, with one terrified look at Glamis, both ladies were gone.

Seyton rose, the knife in his hand. Only a little thing, the decorations of its silver handle felt slick and oily as they became mired in the wet ash on his hands. It was not a weapon to kill a man. He stifled a moment of pity. It was a wretched thing indeed that needed such a knife for defense.

But this one, he reminded himself, needed no protection.

Macbeth walked back without a word to the chair and sat down. Stretching out his injured leg, he looked at the door the women had left by. Watching him, Seyton felt a strange warmth trickling into a heart long since tired of waiting on lords he'd trade for a dog for. But here was a man. A silent man, thinking, but not unblooded. He had more cunning than Sinel and more restraint than Gillecomgain. He was a fighter to match a wild boar, and a grim strength showed itself through his every move, every word, every look.

His new master placed am elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. "Tell me, sirrah. Had she any reason to fear my revenge." His eyes were still fixed on that door.

"Her husband feared it, lord." _And that he confided in none but me,_ he longed to say. _Pray, lord, do you the same._ He crushed the thought. Only a fool boasts of a confidence. "Herself was inno-"

Herself cut him off with a shriek.

JUMP

Macbeth saw the babe s they carried him out – the tiny hand protruding from the sad bundle tinged a dull blue. He saw the little coffin lowered into the ground ouside the family chapel. He saw Seyton at the gate as the servant rode to commission a suitable gravestone. He had _not_ seen the Lady Gruoch.

Nor had anyone else. Distraught, she was holed up, her maids said, in the little chamber adjoining the master bedroom. She would let no one in, would take no food or drink. For two days she kept alone, her wailing ringing out at times, at others silence fell on the hallway, punctuated by low sobs.

For two nights, Macbeth lay in the second chamber, listening. Women, he thought grimly, seemed bad for his sleep. At times, her cries kept him awake, and pity at others. And hours he spent besides gazing at the little knife, still soot-smeared, which he had recovered after Seyton left it. What, he wondered, would make her want to kill him? Or did she even? Perhaps it was his grandfather in him that frightened her.

He didn't suppose he could blame her for that. Her family had been defeated by the current king and hunted down. Only she was hidden away, an infant. And now another family had been taken away from her. For Duncan's sake.

Those two nights brought him little sleep, and the days afforded little time to rest. He sent messengers to all the moray chieftains and the various officials in Glamis, began to make the various decisions that are involved in establishing a new reign and setting a household in order. The latter goal, though, a certain widow did little to help. And Macbeth found his own feelings a stumbling block to solidifying his power. With each passing day, the desire to defy his grandfather seemed just a little more attractive; each day he entertained it just a little longer. He found that he greatly enjoyed flirting with disobedience.

He could do it. He scarcely needed to act at all. Just to flash a fox's smile when the king asked about the affairs of Moray, to dodge the subject and refuse to say that Duncan's crown was safe, would be enough to set the old man worrying. The thought was the sweetest he'd ever had, that in his grasp was the means to hold power over the one who had so long held power over him.

Or he could even go as far as to court Gillecomgain's cause…

With these fancies flickering in his find, he paused on the third night at his chamber door. The passage was silent, and the stillness seemed to draw him on to the door of the main bedroom. He knocked, and the maid who answered, startled, sank into a curtsy. "My lord! - What's your lordship's pleasure."

"Is your mistress well?" He glanced over to the still-closed door and the other servants waiting helplessly. "I would speak with her, if she would consent to see me."

Worriedly, the girl crossed to the little door and murmured something to an older woman with an ear pressed to the wood. The older called through the door – once, twice. There was no response. Both cast doubtful looks at Macbeth.

Treading softly, he crossed the room to stand beside them. "My lady?" He spoke loud enough to be heard through the door but tried hard to keep his voice gentle. "Lady, your absence makes us men and servants fear some ill has fallen on you. Are you well?" He stood silent, and received silence in answer. "I would give you my condolences on your son's death, and speak again with you, if you would agree to see me…" Not a sound came from the little room. "Cousin, I shall bide in the hall for you."

He did so, standing opposite the door. He stood, then rested his back against the stone walls, then sat on the ledge of a narrow window. The maids departed as the hours flew, and the sounds of servants working faded away into silence. He though of going to bed, but didn't. He wouldn't sleep either way, and besides that felt driven to stay beside the lonely door. So he stood and leaned and sat in turns. He laid his ear to the bedroom door, or to the cold stone behind which he imagined the little room to be. He paced to fill the silence.

The moon was sinking already when he heard horses at the gate and a hoarse shout. He went to the window and leaned out, grinning in spite of the hour at the gruff words tossed between the porter and Seyton as the latter made for the stables. He smiled, his hair flapping in a cold night breeze. It was good to have a castle and servants of his own after so long at court, despite the cost. Although it did dampen the joys of Inverness somewhat to know what grief had made it his. He bowed his head, thinking.

"Oh!" Macbeth leapt back, his shoulders hitting the stone behind him. Yes – he had seen it. There on the window ledge was the print of a babe's hands and feet, red as blood. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he stepped back towards the window. The tracks were fresh and wet, as though the blood welled from the very stone of the sill. He could even see the surface ripple darkly in the breeze. With a trembling finger he reached out and, hesitating, touched the stain. The stone was dry, his pale skin unmarked by even a hint of red.

Slowly, he stepped back, seeing as he went the tracks appear down the wall and across the wooden floorboards, and though a child had crawled along the passageway and leapt out…

_Where do they start? _Half-knowing the answer, he was none the less frightened to see the trail begin at Gruoch's door. He stood before it now, his feet planted on either side of the blood, hand paused above the door handle, pulse pounding. He had to see what was behind that door. His hand moved slowly, as unconsciously as he drew breath. His fingers touched cold iron, closed around it.

Before he could open the door, a deafening scream sounded beyond the heavy wood. It rang through the solid oaken planks as loud as shrill as if it was torn from the empty air beside his ear. Thought be damned, he flung open the door and charged through the bedchamber, meeting the final door with his shoulder. Something gave, then broke, and the door sprang out from before him to crash into the stone wall. There he stopped, bewildered. _Where is she?_ Not in the chair before him, or the shadowed corners. _There! _His blood ran colder than the winter air. In the window, squeezed between the torn-away bars that jutted awkwardly out on their bent nails, the lady stood precariously. She cast one horrified glance over her shoulder at him. Then jumped.

Another wild shriek rang out. Before it even reached his ears, Macbeth found himself half-flung out the window after her, wrenching the broken boards from the wall in his haste. He reached out, his long fingers catching, by some miracle, the cloth of her dress. She hung there for a moment, screaming, as the boards fell past them into blackness, landing on the hard earth of the courtyard with a dull thud. _How far below…?_

Macbeth pulled desperately, but felt his body sliding across the windowsill, its smooth stone grating against his hipbones. He could not plant his feet to brace himself. All he could manage was to lift her enough to try for a better hold. Even that proved impossible, as she was now struggling, crying "let me go." He grabbed another fistful of cloth and tried to wriggle his way back into the window. The twin gashes across his ribs screamed with pain. He felt the fabric in his fingers start to slip. "Help!"

The call wasn't needed. Before the echoes faded he heard a crowd of men storming down the hallway and a familiar voice at the door. "My lord!"

Macbeth didn't take his eyes off Gruoch and the great distance below her. "Help me, Seyton! Pull!" Instantly he felt his servant's arms around his waist. Bracing one foot against the wall, Seyton hauled for all he was worth. Another joined him, grabbing their master by the belt while a third reached out to grab him by the shoulder. In a few moments they had dragged him back onto his feet. Now all turned their efforts on the unfortunate lady. Macbeth, still clutching her dress, hauled her to the edge of the window. But fighting her would-be rescuers, Gruoch refused to be pulled in. Sobbing wildly, she twisted free of all holds but his. The women of the castle were beginning to bustle in, alarmed and full of disapproving chatter as their lord and fellow servants man-handled their mistress into the room like an unbroken foal.

Panting, Macbeth suddenly felt his wounds and weariness more than he had in the past weeks. He shifted his grip so that he held her firmly by the arm and forced her away from the window. "Stand aside," he told the maids and servants in the doorway. They disappeared readily and he brought Gruoch into the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled her down beside him, still holding her only by the arm.

The poor creature's cries were now lost in tears and sobbing. She tried to pull away, her free hand beating and clawing at his chest. Not moving, Macbeth looked at Seyton. "I have been waiting outside the door since nightfall, and followed the footprints - you saw them, did you not? And came in when I heard the first scream."

Confusion clouded the servant's expression. "Lord, of footprints I know nothing, but…" He glanced at the men standing with him, uncertain. "Lord, there was but one cry."

_What?_ Macbeth stared, but was distracted by a touch at his shoulder. Gruoch's crying had quieted, and now she lay her cheek, defeated, against him, soaking his woolen shirt with her tears. Her free hand lay still on his shoulder. "Why won't you let me go?" Her voice was almost gone, weak and hoarse.

"Lady, you have worried us these past days, and done yourself harm, I fear. Or will do so again." He loosened his grip only slightly. "Are you not glad I caught you as you fell?"

"No-o!" She lifted her pretty head, her red, brimming eyes finding his. "My son is gone, my husband is gone, for whose sake should I live."

"For your own. And a new friend's, who swears to be a good one." Those eyes searched his face. Soft green, they might have been beautiful had not the past few days been so unkind to them. "If you will me leave, cousin, I would send for food. I think you have fasted too long." She nodded and he dispatched one of the servants. But her tears came again.

"I don't want to eat." Her voice was all but a whisper. "How can I?" She lay her head again on his shoulder. "How should I shift this sorrow back to its source, and be revenged?"

Macbeth released her arm, and with one finger, gently brushed aside the disheveled hair that hung over her neck. He leaned in close, and whispered to her. "Lady, I know how."


End file.
